


Thunder

by witch_brew



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Assault, Blood, Consensual Sex, Gen, Gender Neutral, Gore, Graphic, Kinda, Murder, Other, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Torture, Violence, Violent, chainsaw, he fucks you then he kills you idk what you want from me?????, this is fucked up lmao, tried to be genderneutral, trigger warning, tw, you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9436034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You don't know what he is to you, but to him you are prey.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahahhahahaa i'm back, still gross, there's gonna be mORE OF THIS NASTY BLOODY NONSENSE HAHAHAHHAHAHAH

It isn't supposed to be a date. You both know that. You are just... friends? Would you call it that? 

(You shouldn't.)

You met Strade in the evening. You were working night shift at the local Subway, a part time gig to try and help pay your way through junior college. He'd come in, hands shoved into his pockets, slightly drunk. You had hoped he hadn't driven in that condition. He was picking up a called in order.

You had smiled, a bit sheepish, as you handed him his purchase, and his eyes had lit up.

After that it didn't take long. He was attractive and you were young, lonely, inexperienced.

You call him your friend. You say you aren't anything more. But when his hand slides down your waist to rest on your hips, you don't struggle. When he kisses and nips your neck in the backseat of his car, parked in your driveway after he drives you home from work, you don't push him away.

You like the way it feels when he touches you. He's slightly rougher than anyone you've been with before. 

You haven't gotten too far yet though. He's gotten you off a few times, although he doesn't seem to focus on that too much. For him, it's more of a game. How far can he push your limits? How many times can he make you scream for him?

He likes to make you bleed. Bites, a bit too rough, breaking the skin of your thighs. Nails raking down your back. He likes the pained noises you make. It gets him off. 

Tonight, though, he is being uncharacteristically gentle. An arm around your shoulder, a hand on your lower back, loving and guiding and you're falling for it. You're falling for him.

(You are falling for a lie.)

He takes you to a spot in the woods you did not know was there. It's beautiful, the full moon shining down on the soft grass. There are flowers blooming in patches. 

You sit on the grass with Strade, a few feet away from a spot of recently disturbed earth, the grass only just beginning to grow back. You don't notice it. 

(If you did, would it save you?)

You nuzzle into his side and, after a while, his hands begin to roam. He's slipped the bag he carried off of his shoulders to push you back on the grass, his own body covering yours. Lips pressing roughly against your neck. Teeth sinking in, marking you. 

You moan and gasp and whimper just the way he likes and his hands grow more and more impatient, tugging your clothes from your body, revealing more of your unmarked skin to his ravenous, eager eyes. 

You feel as though you are being devoured. 

His fingers find their way between your legs, rubbing and touching, and you're slowly losing your mind from the sensations, hips canting upwards into his almost too eager hand. 

He's almost too rough, fingers and teeth digging into your soft skin with vicious, filthy intentions, noticeably self-serving in his actions. You part your thighs and two fingers work you open, quickly transitioning to three, stretching and burning in the most delightful way. 

Once he's decided you are prepared enough, he removes his fingers to undo his own pants, and you feel the blunt head of his cock pressed beseechingly against your entrance. He groans low in his throat as he violently thrusts his hips forwards, completely hilted inside of you in a single thrust, and you scream out in combined pleasure and pain. It's perfect, you love it, you love this. 

His calloused fingers grip your hips as he rams into your pliant, accepting body; leaving bruises in the shape of his hands. He's not focusing on your pleasure, but you receive it anyway, crying out and moaning and screaming his name into the sky. 

He loves that. You know he does. You almost sound pained, and that only furthers his lust. He's a bit sadistic. You know that.

You would be lying if you said you weren't a bit masochistic. 

Your hips are rocking up to meet his thrusts now, your mouth open to release your noises and heavy breathes. Your bodies are both slick with sweat now, and with the way he is pounding into you, you wonder if you will be able to walk after this. 

You don't think you'd mind if he fucked you to death at this point. 

You're getting close now, voice growing louder as his own thrusts begin to grow sloppy, though no less aggressive. 

His eyes are lit with an almost unhinged passion, one hand pressing against your throat now. You gasp for air that won't come, and in moments your entire body locks up, orgasm overtaking you. 

He follows soon after, hips stuttering before stilling completely as he spills inside of you. 

For a while after, the two of you lie on your backs in the grass. You're drowsy and breathless, smiling in a dazed sort of way. 

You don't notice the thick, dark clouds that are steadily filling the sky, covering the bright moon.

Your eyes are closing now, sleepy from the recent activity. Strade is quiet next to you, but he's beginning to shift, a strange sense of restlessness radiating from him. 

You feel a sudden drop of liquid land on your forehead, and you open your eyes. 

“Ah.” Strade says, grinning a bit too wildly, “It's beginning to rain.”

You feel something now. Something shifting in your relationship with this man. 

Something that was always there is making itself known, finally, and you suddenly feel like a deer staring into the eyes of a starving wolf. 

You feel as though you need to run.

“Strade?” You ask, nervous, slowly sitting up now. 

His grin widens slightly. 

“Ah, leibling. You might want to run now.” 

And, as the rain begins to fall steadily, you listen. 

His laughter, nearly manic, follows you into the trees as you flee in terror. This isn't right. Isn't he supposed to be safe?

(No. He never was. You know that. You always knew that. It's what made him so attractive. The risk.)

(You're going to die, you know.)

It's dark now, the clouds blocking out the moon completely, rain coming down in thick sheets. You're running blindly though the thick trees, branches and sharp thorns snagging your skin, scratching the tender flesh. 

You don't hear him following over the sound of the rain, but you know he's there. You know. 

(Like a deer sensing the wolf closing in. You know, but it won't save you.)

Suddenly lightning strikes, lighting up the forest, helping you to avoid tripping over a thick tree limb ten feet ahead of you. But, you realize as a faint laugh reaches you, the flash also exposed you to him. Helped him gain on you. 

You run faster. Thunder follows the lightning closely, loud enough to make you stumble. 

You hear him laughing again, far too close. Your heart is pounding violently in your chest, adrenaline fueling you to keep moving. Escape. Survive. 

(Impossible, but the body doesn't like to give up so quickly.)

You manage to regain your stride, but all good things must end. 

(He's so much faster than you.)

Lightning flashes again, illuminating the trees, and you stop far too suddenly, falling back on your ass in the mud. He is in front of you, waiting, breathless but grinning wildly. 

He knows he's won.

You notice, after a bit, the chainsaw he's carrying. He managed to chase you down, get ahead of you, all while carrying that. 

Your scream for help is drowned out by the sharp boom of thunder. Strade laughs, beginning to walk toward you, revving up the power tool in his hands. 

“What's the matter, buddy?” He shouts over the pouring rain, tilting his head in a mockery of concern. 

You begin to sob, scrambling backwards in a last ditch, useless effort to escape this. Your fingers dig into the mud.

(You are going to die.)

You beg for your life through your tears, but that only serves to further excite him. He brings the chainsaw down, right into the meat of your thigh. You screech horrendously loud, throat tearing from the sheer volume. 

You thrash from the pain, throwing your head back against the wet ground, clawing at the soil. Blood sprays your face, his face. 

His grin never wavers as he tears the chainsaw free from your thigh and brings it down on your left arm, right at the shoulder. 

If anything, he seems to be enjoying this even more than the sex. 

“I don't get to do this, you know.” He says, conversationally, as he pries the saw free from your ruined shoulder. “Usually I take them to my basement. But you're special, and the weather was just right... buddy I couldn't resist.” 

You sob harder, grasping at your bloody mess of a shoulder, but then you freeze.

He's slowly easing the chainsaw towards your stomach.

“Strade please!” You manage to choke, mouth dry, eyes wide. You don't want to die. 

(You don't always get what you want.)

He grins at you, far too friendly, and pushes down. 

It's awful, the way it feels as it tears you open, destroying internal organs, spraying the forest floor with chunks of intestine and various other no-longer-internal organs. Your screams die down quickly as he drags it upwards and you begin to choke on your own blood. 

You frantic clawing at the dirt slows, and then stops. 

Your chest ceases it's panicked heaving. Your eyes glaze over slowly, the last noticeable emotion within them pure fear. 

Lightning strikes nearby. Thunder rolls. Strade smiles. 

Your heart stops. 

Strade buries you in the clearing he fucked you in. In a few months, your grave will be covered in flowers.


End file.
